


spend the night and we'll make it worth the while

by daggertattoos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Deaths, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Smut, client!mickey, hooker!ian, i suck at tagging im sorry, i tried don't hate me, svetlana and yevgeny are mentioned, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daggertattoos/pseuds/daggertattoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>So he ends up at some bar, throwing back shots of vodka because he'd rather feel the burn in his throat than the ache in his chest. But it doesn't help much because he's still got all these thoughts swimming around in his muddy head; What if he'd been there? What if he was the one driving? What if he could've saved them? He knows there's no point in thinking about those things now, but he can't help himself. His thoughts are too loud and he needs a distraction, a big one and he knows exactly where to find it.</em>
</p><p>  <em>Boystown.</em></p><p> </p><p>or the one where mickey's life is falling apart and ian is the perfect distraction</p>
            </blockquote>





	spend the night and we'll make it worth the while

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, I had this idea in my head earlier this week and started writing this on Tuesday, and I hoped to have it up by Thursday or Friday but it took me a little longer than I thought it would but I liked how it turned out so I hope you guys do too! Sorry if the medical part of this doesn't make sense at all, it's just fiction. Anyway, enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> Title from The Night by HONNE

It happens on a Friday. It's raining and Mickey's half asleep on the couch in front of the tv, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other as his hooded eyes try to focus on the show that's on. It's some cartoon that Yev was watching earlier, not that the kid even understands because he's only three, but Mickey was far too lazy to change the channel after they left. Dad just got out of prison – _again_ – and Mandy insisted that they go pick him up, but Mickey didn't want to. He'll go the next time. It was bound to happen anyway. Mandy dragged Svet and Yev with her because she hates going to the compound alone and now Mickey's wallowing in the peace and quiet of his own little apartment. Except it's too quiet and he hates it. He wants to hear Yev babbling nonsense as he knocks over toys on the ground and he wants to hear him cry because he's hungry. He wants to hear Svet practicing her English because she's trying to get a job as a kindergarten teacher and he wants to hear her cuss in Russian when she gets the phrases wrong. He wants to hear Mandy blaring rock music and singing off-key because she's annoying like that and he wants to hear her telling him to not be ‘such a fucking dick, Mickey’ and ‘I still love you, though’, because she does. They all do. And Mickey loves them too. They're his family. Except he doesn't hear any of it. Instead, he hears a knock, then, “Mickey Milkovich? Chicago PD.”

Fuck. Mickey almost spills his beer as he leaps off the couch, putting out the smoke as quickly as he can. Why are the police here? He didn't do anything. Mickey takes a deep breath. _That's right_ , he didn't do anything. He hasn't done anything ever since he left the Southside three years ago. He has nothing to worry about. He pulls himself together, smoothening out his week-old t-shirt as best as he can and he goes to open the door.

One look at the cop's face says it all and Mickey's gut twists, his heart beginning to race. “What happened?”

“There's been an accident.”

•

“Where are they? Where's my family?” Mickey storms into the emergency room, breathless and almost doubled over as he pants heavily.

“Sir, I'm gonna need you to calm down,” a nurse tells him, reaching out for him slowly but he swats her hand away, not in the mood for this nonsense.

“This is fucking calm,” Mickey hisses, eyes narrowing into sharp slits. “Now tell me where they are.”

“Sir, _please-_ ”

“Fucking hell.” Mickey pushes her aside, his eyes darting around every corner and he calls out, “Mandy? Svetlana? Yevgeny?”

That earns him sharp glares and shushes, but he ignores them, his head spinning as he tries to find them, and he can't breathe. He can't fucking breathe and-

“Mickey!”

He feels a flood of relief in his chest as skinny arms wrap around his neck, almost choking him but he doesn't care. He hugs Mandy back, his grip on her so tight that it might crush her but she's crying and so is he, and thank god, she's alive.

“Mickey, I'm so sorry,” he hears her say between sobs and he pulls away to cradle her face, trying to shush her but she shakes her head, cheeks stained with tears and dried blood, hair and clothes fucking drenched and she chokes out, “Svet and Yev- They're-”

“ _No_.”

“I'm sorry, Mickey,” she cries, falling back onto him as she breaks down into even more tears.

 _No, no, no._ This can't be happening. Mickey tears himself away from Mandy, telling her that he'll be back in a second and he heads towards the counter, desperation clear in his voice when he asks, “Where's my wife and son?”

An older woman approaches him this time, her voice slow and soothing as she says, “Mickey, I'm Dr Veronica Fisher, I was with your wife and son earlier-”

“Where are they now?” Mickey interrupts, starting to feel a little frantic, really. “You need to take me to them. They- they need me. My son, he's scared of doctors and- and my wife, she- _Fuck_ , just- I need to see them. Please.”

Dr Fisher gives him a shaky look, her hand coming up to squeeze his arm and he doesn't wanna hear the words she's about to say. He really doesn't, but he doesn't have a fucking choice because she says them anyway. “They were hurt really, _really_ badly, Mickey and there was nothing we could do. I'm so, so sorry.”

Mickey almost throws up. He doesn't understand. “How did this happen? How could they- I don't understand- I-”

“Your father was at the wheel-”

“My _father?_ ”

“They got caught in the storm and he slipped off the road, crashed into a truck or something. He died on impact,” Dr Fisher says and Mickey shouldn't feel this relieved at the fact that his own father was killed. “Your wife and son were in the front seat and they were severely injured, broken bones, fractured skulls, internal bleeding. They barely made it through the ambulance ride and by the time they got here, there was nothing left to do. Your sister was in the back seat and she's a little banged up but she'll be okay. You should be with her, Mickey. You need each other.”

Mickey's still letting it process – the fact that Svet and Yev are _dead_ – but he nods, deciding to head back to Mandy. She gives him a watery smile as he walks towards her, but the closer he gets, the more her lips slowly twist into a frown and as if things couldn't get worse, Mandy collapses.

•

“Mickey?”

“I'm here,” Mickey whispers, tightening his grip on Mandy's hand. “I'm right here. You're okay.”

“What's wrong with me?” she asks, her voice weak as she fades in and out of consciousness.

Mickey gulps, pressing the back of her hand to his cheek, and he answers, “They don't know yet, Mands, but you gotta stay awake, okay? Can you do that for me?”

“Okay, Mick.”

•

The funeral is depressing. He's dressed in all black and he's the only one there, watching as they lower three caskets into the ground. _Terry Milkovich; Svetlana Milkovich; Yevgeny Milkovich_. Mickey feels sick. They didn't deserve this. Yev was just a baby, and Svet was finally gonna make something of herself. But now they're being put six-feet-under, their lives coming to an end before they've even really lived it. It's not fair. But life's never fucking fair. He needs to understand that.

Mickey doesn't go home because he doesn't want to be reminded how empty it is. How quiet. It doesn't even feel like home anymore. He took down all the pictures because it hurts too much to look at them. He put away all their things because he hates the way he bawls over a fucking toy car that Yev loved or a shiny dress that Svet used to wear. The house isn't a home and he doesn't want to be there. He doesn't go to the hospital because he doesn't want Mandy to feel his bad vibes. He doesn't want her to worry about him because that's just who she is and right now, Mickey's wellbeing shouldn't matter at all. She's got enough going on. And he's tired of Dr Fisher asking how he is and he's even more tired of saying that he's fucking fine. (He's not fine, though.)

So he ends up at some bar, throwing back shots of vodka because he'd rather feel the burn in his throat than the ache in his chest. But it doesn't help much because he's still got all these thoughts swimming around in his muddy head; _What if he'd been there? What if he was the one driving? What if he could've saved them?_ He knows there's no point in thinking about those things now, but he can't help himself. His thoughts are too loud and he needs a distraction, a big one and he knows exactly where to find it.

 _Boystown_.

Mickey hasn't been here since he was sixteen, trying to figure himself out and looking for a good time. It's different now, though. He knows what he's looking for and the second he lays eyes on a pretty red-headed boy, leaning up against a brick wall with a cheap cigarette dangling between his lips, Mickey knows that's the one.

He walks right up to the boy, trying to keep his footing steady and he offers a cracked smile. “Hi.”

The boy sucks in, his cheeks hollowing obscenely as he stares at Mickey and Mickey feels blood rush to his groin. He tosses the cigarette aside, offering an equally crooked smile. “Hi.”

Beneath the glitter and eyeliner and shit, Mickey sees dusty freckles and pale skin and bright green eyes and Jesus, is someone allowed to look this good? Before he loses himself completely by just staring at the guy, he asks, “Can I take you home?”

He tilts his red-haired head to the side, eyes raking over Mickey's entire body, taking in every inch of him. He's drunk, quite obviously so, but then again everyone's always drunk around here so whatever. And he's cute, a tiny little thing, really. There's something off about him, though. He can't quite put his finger on it, but well, he's always been up for a challenge.

He quirks a smug little smirk. “It'll cost you.”

Mickey shrugs, not too bothered about the money, because he doesn't have anyone else to spend it on anyway. No more ridiculous toys for Yev, no more fancy clothes for Svet- _Fuck_. He's not supposed to think about them. Not now. So he locks those things away in little boxes in his mind and trains his eyes on the boy in front of him. “Let's go then.”

The boy pushes himself off the wall, heading towards Mickey and there's whistles and cheers and shouts of something along the lines of, “Go, Curtis! Get some!”

Curtis laughs, flipping them off before he bumps Mickey's elbow with his own, saying, “Lead the way.”

So Mickey does, his feet taking him straight home with no problem, despite his drunken state and Curtis trails by his side, puffing on another cigarette. He's so tall, he's practically looming over Mickey, and it's even worse when Mickey's sat on his bed, the guy standing over him and staring him down.

“So, Curtis-”

“ _Ian_ ,” he corrects quickly, letting out a small chuckle. “It's Ian, actually. Curtis is just a stage name to keep creeps away.”

Mickey arches an eyebrow at that. “How do you know I'm not one of those creeps?”

“I just do,” Ian says with a smile, sweet and soft, a contrast to his smirks earlier and Mickey feels his heart flutter. _What the fuck?_ No. It's nothing. He's just worked up and stressed and man, he needs to stop thinking.

“I'm, um, Mickey,” he says then, not knowing how else to answer Ian's words. He gulps, rubbing his palms together and he's not exactly sure what he's supposed to do now. “So, how does this work? I've never...” He trails off, not wanting to say the words. _Never paid a hooker for sex._

Ian hums, slowly moving downwards and Mickey scoots back, letting Ian push him onto his back, bouncing a little on the bed. Ian crawls over him, hovering over Mickey's body and his breath fans Mickey's skin, the scent being an odd combination of smoke and mint. When did he have a mint?

“It works however you want it to,” Ian tells him, leaning down to press his open mouth against Mickey's jaw, chapped lips against stubbled skin. “You're in charge here. Just tell me what you want and I'll make it happen.”

 _I want my family back._ No, Mickey, _stop_. Fuck.

Mickey shakes his head, blocking out any thoughts of that and he focuses on the feeling of Ian's lips on him and god, that feels good. “I want you to fuck me,” he breathes out heavily when Ian's wet kisses begin to trail down his neck, and Ian can feel the thrumming in his throat as he groans, smirking against his skin.

“I can do that.” Ian's hands slide down Mickey's sides, slipping under his shirt and his fingers are cold against Mickey's warm skin and Mickey almost shudders. Ian pushes his shirt off, asking, “Anything I need to know before I start?”

“Like what?”

Ian shrugs, leaning down to kiss Mickey, on the lips this time, and he isn't surprised when Mickey jerks away from him, growling, “Kiss me and I'll cut your fucking tongue out.”

“Like that,” Ian snorts and he sighs, going back to sucking on Mickey's neck. “So, no kissing. Got it. What about your safe word?”

“Safe word?” Mickey grunts, scoffing a little. “I don't need a safe word.”

“Just in case,” Ian tells him, stopping to look up at Mickey through his eyelashes and wow. How does he do that? How can he look like that? What kind of fucking sorcery-

“Pancakes.”

“ _What?_ ”

“That's the safe word. _Pancakes_.”

Mickey's eyebrows furrow, his nose scrunching up cutely. “Why?”

“Why not?” Ian counters, a bright grin splitting his face and despite himself, Mickey laughs, throwing his head back onto the bed and Ian laughs too, and for a second there, it all feels a little too normal, a little too happy. But it's gone as quickly as it came, the atmosphere becoming heavier when Ian moves, his crotch rubbing over Mickey's and they both suck in a sharp breath.

“Fuck. _Right_. Yeah.” Ian is quick to get the rest of Mickey's clothes off, and he's out of his own glittery outfit before Mickey can even blink, and is it bad that Mickey's mouth actually waters at the sight of Ian's body? He's _that_ hot. Ian takes a look around, spotting a bedside table with a drawer and he throws a questioning look at Mickey, who only nods in return, looking awfully frustrated as he's lying on the bed, his hard cock curved up against his stomach and Ian almost whines. He quickly gets to the drawer, grabbing a condom and some lube – strawberry flavoured, _ha_ – and he's climbing over Mickey again, one hand rolling the rubber over his cock expertly and the other hand slipping between Mickey's thighs, light fingertips trailing down to his hole. The lube is cold and Mickey hisses when Ian touches him, his teeth biting down on his bottom lip to stop himself from making any more noises as Ian pushes a finger into him.

It doesn't work because he hears himself groan when Ian adds another finger, long and slender, crooking them just slightly. “Fucking hell,” Mickey mutters, and he can't even remember when he last had sex. It's been forever and he almost forgot how good it feels to be opened up like this. He loves the burn, loves the feeling of being stretched, and Christ, if Ian doesn't get his dick in him soon, he might actually cry. Which kind of defeats the purpose of this whole thing. Fuck. Not again, Mickey. Seriously.

“You ready?” Ian asks, after he's gotten Mickey stretched around three of his fingers and Mickey huffs. “Been ready for hours, you fucking tease.”

Ian ignores that, pulling his fingers out and they wrap around his own cock, slowly pushing into Mickey and he barely gets the tip in but Mickey's already moaning and _fuck_. That sounds hot. Ian slides himself in even more and Mickey's tight around him, so, _so_ tight, and he gasps when he bottoms out, Mickey's legs wrapping around him and he stills, feeling Mickey squirm around him.

“I told you I want you to fuck me,” Mickey says through gritted teeth, his heels digging into Ian's back and Ian obeys, hands coming to grab Mickey's hips to lift him up a little, then he's pulling out, thrusting right back into Mickey with a grunt. It takes a second to get into the right rhythm, but once he finds his angle, he's pounding into Mickey's ass so hard that the bed starts to creak.

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey whines, high and loud, and his fingernails run along Ian's bare back, leaving bright red streaks against his pale skin, but Ian doesn't care. He keeps his grip on Mickey's hips, holding him so tightly that he knows he's bound to leave marks too. Mickey gasps. “ _There_. Right there.”

Ian twists his crotch just right, burying himself into Mickey's ass, hitting Mickey's sweet spot and Mickey whimpers, eyes squeezing shut. Ian slams into him again and again, right there, and it isn't long before Mickey's coming, Ian's name on his lips, white streaks on his chest and it's the most beautiful thing Ian's seen. Ian comes right after that, hot and pulsing in Mickey's ass and goddamn, that's a fucking great ass. Ian wants to eat it out. He mentally puts that on a list for next time. _Next time_. If there is one.

There is one. Mickey comes by the club again the next Friday, personally asking for ‘Curtis’ and if Ian feels giddy about like a fucking 13-year old, no one needs to know that. And if Mickey feels the same way, well, no one needs to know that either.

•

“Mickey?”

“Hmm?”

“I'm tired, Mick. I'm _so_ tired. I can't...”

Mickey's eyes snap open, just in time to see Mandy close hers, eyelids fluttering shut and his heart jumps up his throat, his own body jumping out of his seat as he tries to keep her awake, shaking her by the shoulders but it's not working. “No, no, Mandy. Please. Don't do this to me.”

He hears the beeping, too many beeps, it's not fucking normal and he screams for a nurse, for a doctor, for anyone. Then he's being pulled out of the room, already a sobbing mess and he sinks to the ground, back against the wall, face buried in his hands. He can't lose her. Not her. His head is spinning and he's tired too, and he just needs to close his eyes for a second. Just one sec-

“Her organs are failing,” Dr Fisher explains when Mickey wakes up later on, eyes sore and head throbbing. “There's some internal bleeding that we weren't able to detect earlier, but-”

“She's alive?”

“She's in a coma, Mickey,” Dr Fisher answers slowly, a small frown on her lips and she tries to smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. “But, yeah, she's alive.”

 _She's alive_. That's all that matters.

•

It becomes a routine.

Mickey calls Ian almost every Friday, and like clockwork, Ian shows up at his door, ready to take his mind off things, to make him feel something other than the ache in his heart. And it works for the most part. When Ian's with him, he forgets about everything else, he forgets that his entire life is falling apart and sometimes, he forgets that Ian isn't his to keep. That's the worst part of it all because at the end of the night, Mickey passes him the money and he goes. Then Mickey's alone again. Cold and empty and so fucking alone.

He stopped sleeping a long time ago, he can't bring himself to. Every time he tries, his brain is screaming at him, saying; _What if something happens to Mandy while he's asleep? What if he's not there? What if she dies?_ The only way he can drown out the voices is by drowning himself in alcohol and distracting himself with sex. Ian's voice moaning his name sounds far better than his evil self-conscious. He wonders if Ian notices, the fact that he's become an alcoholic or the fact that he hasn't slept in forever. He probably doesn't. After all, he only comes to fuck Mickey and get paid. And sure, sometimes they talk, but it's all just trivial things at most. How they like their coffee, and what kind of music they listen to, and whether they're up for eating ass-

“Wait, _what?_ ”

Ian's face burns, his head ducking as he lets out a small chuckle. “It's okay if you don't want to, I was just wondering-”

“No, no, it's not that I don't want to,” Mickey says quickly, blood rushing to his own cheeks as he tries to get the words out, fumbling over them. “It's just that I've never actually, you know-”

“Oh, no?” Ian hums, a small smile curving on his lips as Mickey shakes his head. Ian seems to think it over, then he motions for Mickey to lie down, propping a pillow under his hips. He hovers over Mickey, leaning down to swirl his tongue around one of Mickey's nipples because he knows Mickey likes that and he smirks to himself when Mickey shivers. He drags his tongue, wet and hot, down the middle of Mickey's torso, stopping to tug down his boxers, and he sucks in a sharp breath when Mickey's already hard cock bounces up, pre-cum leaking out of the tip. Ian takes it into his mouth, his tongue pressing against his slit and Mickey hisses, squirming under him. He licks down his cock, large hands gripping Mickey's hips to hold him down and when he's staring right at Mickey's tight hole, he stops, his eyes flickering up to Mickey. Mickey's propped up on his elbows, eyes hooded and skin slick as he stares at Ian between his legs, shiny lips and tousled hair, and neither of them are sure who has the better view.

“If you want me to stop, just say the word and I will,” Ian tells him and he nods, too out of it to do anything more than that. He's not sure how he feels about it, but it's Ian so he lets out a heavy breath, nodding once more to give Ian the okay and Ian smiles. _Fuck_. He's so pretty. Mickey doesn't get to admire him for much longer because his head dips down between his thighs then Mickey feels his tongue on his hole, flat and burning against his skin. When the tip of Ian's tongue traces his rim slowly, he lets out a muffled whimper, biting down on his lip to silence himself. That's a bad idea because Ian lifts his head right then, green eyes flashing a shade darker and voice raspy when he says, “Don't do that. I want to hear the sounds you make.” And _oh_. Mickey knows that ultimately, he's in charge here, and he can choose what he wants to happen, but Ian taking control like that makes him feel fuzzy inside so he obeys, releasing his almost swollen lip and he runs his tongue over it instead, making Ian's mouth water. And Jesus, he wants to kiss the fuck out of Mickey. Ian shakes his head, getting a grip of himself and he goes back to working on Mickey's ass, running his tongue over the rim again and again until he can feel Mickey writhe underneath him, then he plunges his tongue inside him, pulling a sharp moan from the man. He wiggles his tongue in deeper, stretching him out and licking at his insides, spit beginning to drip down his chin. He feels Mickey's thighs shaking around his head then Mickey's hand is in his hair, pulling at it.

“Don't-”

Ian stills, pulling away and he thinks Mickey's had enough but Mickey's fingers twist in his hair sharply, pushing his face back into his ass as he breathes out, “Don't stop. _Please_ , Ian. I need more-”

Ian nods against him, pushing his tongue in again and he licks and sucks at his hole, tasting every inch of him and he lets out a loud moan, letting Mickey feel the vibration and Mickey whines, feeling heat pool in his gut and when Ian thrusts his tongue in one more time, Mickey's coming, his entire body shaking around Ian and Ian moves up, sucking the cum off Mickey's twitching cock and he swallows, loving the way he tastes. Once Mickey's calmed down a bit, his breathing evening out and his legs going limp around Ian, Ian crawls up over him, arms on either side of him as his face hovers over Mickey's.

“You good?” Ian asks, genuinely concerned because Mickey hasn't come that hard since the first night they met. Mickey nods, eyes glued shut and he runs a hand over his sweaty skin, into his hair and Ian takes a moment to just admire him, how beautiful he is, dark eyelashes spread over high cheekbones, pale skin tinted pink at the cheeks, swollen lips that are just begging for Ian to kiss them and he wants to. He wants to so, _so_ bad. And Mickey does too. He doesn't know why, because he's never been the type to kiss, but god, Ian's lips feel so good on him, everywhere, he can't help but wonder what they'll feel like on his own mouth, wonder how he'll taste and he's sick of wondering, so his eyes flicker open for a moment, getting a glimpse of Ian's pretty face before he lifts his head up, cupping the back of Ian's neck to pull him into a strong kiss. And holy fuck. Ian's lips are hot and firm, but soft at the same time, and when Mickey pecks at his bottom lip, Ian lets him in, lets him lick into his mouth and he tastes salty, probably from Mickey's own cum and that shouldn't be hot but it is and Mickey's going weak at the feeling of Ian's tongue running over his, Ian's lips massaging his so, so well.

Mickey pulls away to catch his breath, but he's on Ian again in a second, a little rougher this time, and there's too much tongue, too much teeth but he doesn't care because if he sucks hard enough, he can taste the mint in Ian's mouth. He's getting hard again, and Ian still hasn't gotten off from before, so his free hand trails down Ian's side, reaching between them to take Ian's dick, guiding him to his hole.

Ian breaks the kiss, his hand quickly grabbing Mickey's as he looks down at him, eyes wide. “Mick, I'm not wearing a rubber.”

Mickey shakes his head, telling him, “It's okay, I wanna feel you.”

Fucking hell. Ian's whipped. He shouldn't, he really shouldn't but who is he to deny Mickey's request? He lets Mickey push the tip of his cock in, but when Mickey winces, he stills, sucking in a sharp breath. “Are you sure?” he asks, glancing between Mickey's eyes and his still-sensitive ass.

It takes him a second to get used to the burn, but eventually he nods, saying, “Yeah, I'm sure. Just, um, go slow, okay?”

“Okay.” Ian takes his time, slowly pushing his dick in and he tugs Mickey's hand away, stretching it up and he laces their fingers together, pressing Mickey's hand into the bed. His head leans back down to press his mouth onto Mickey's, keeping him distracted from the burn between his legs, reminding him that it's okay. It's different like this, Ian can feel Mickey's walls and he's so warm and tight so he stills in him for a while, letting him get used to the feeling and Mickey loves it, loves the way he can feel Ian throbbing in him, filling him up. Ian thrusts in and out him slowly, his movements almost lazy as he drags his tongue down the side of Mickey's neck, settling on his pulse point. He nips at it, getting a delightful little hiss out of Mickey and he tightens his grip on Mickey's fingers, sucking and biting at his skin until it's bruised and shiny with spit. He licks at the spot, blowing on it to soothe his skin and Mickey almost whimpers.

Then, there's a flash of lightning and thunder rumbles in the sky, rain coming down hard and almost immediately Mickey's body tenses up, Ian's hips going still. Ian lets go of his hand that's gone white at the knuckles and his fingers come up to push Mickey's hair away from his forehead, cradling his face in his palm.

“You're scared of storms?” Ian asks, but the tone of his voice isn't condescending at all. It's kind and warm and Mickey wants to drown himself in it.

His blue eyes are wide and watery in the dim room, and his voice echoes in the quiet of it all when he answers, “Bad things happen in storms.”

Ian offers a sweet smile, his thumb lightly touching Mickey's cheekbone, barely there. “Not now, not here. I've got you.” He presses a small kiss to Mickey's lips, just a soft peck but it makes Mickey melt under him, his hand reaching for the back of Ian's neck, holding him close. Ian starts to thrust into him again, rocking his hips against Mickey's gently, all while whispering sweet nothings against his lips, caressing his cheek softly. And they're close, so, so close and Mickey feels Ian's heartbeat over his, feels skin on skin, lips on lips and this isn't just sex anymore. This is more and he knows it. They both know it.

They come together, Mickey's name on Ian's lips and Ian's on Mickey's, their bodies moving together as they ride it out, breathing each other in like oxygen.

Ian falls asleep next to him, and Mickey doesn't tell him to leave because they're both tired and the rain is too heavy for him to walk through anyway. Mickey tries to close his eyes, but they refuse to, so he lies there and stares at the ceiling, wondering how many hours have passed until Ian stirs awake in the middle of the morning, rubbing sleep away from his eyes. He's quiet as he dresses himself, his back facing Mickey as he shrugs his jeans on and Mickey feels his stomach flip. Ian doesn't turn back towards him, just heads out of the room and Mickey follows him out.

“So...” Ian stands by the door, hands shoved in his pockets as he rocks himself on the balls of his feet.

Mickey clears his throat, digging into his own pocket to get the money, feeling uneasy in his gut when he slips the notes into Ian's hand. Ian is hesitant to take it too, but he does anyway, quickly putting away. “Thanks,” he mutters, giving Mickey one last look before he pulls the door open, one foot out the door.

“Ian?”

Ian looks over his shoulder to see Mickey looking up at him with those baby blues of his, nervously chewing on his bottom lip. Ian raises an eyebrow and Mickey's cheeks burn when he asks, “Kiss me?”

Despite himself, Ian breaks out into a smile, turning back to take Mickey's face into his hands, pulling him up to kiss him, strong and full on the lips, Mickey squeaking under him as he stands on tiptoes, his arms wrapping around Ian's neck. Ian's tongue explores Mickey's mouth again, and all he tastes is _MickeyMickeyMickey_ and he loves it. He pulls away when he can't breathe anymore, his thumbs still digging into Mickey's cheeks and he presses one last kiss to his lips.

“I gotta go.”

“Okay.”

Mickey closes the door behind him, pressing his back against the wall and he knows he's grinning to himself like a fucking idiot, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care that he's blushing, or that he's got flutters in his tummy, or that for the first time in a long time, he feels happy.

And little does he know, Ian's on the other side of the door, feeling the exact same thing.

•

Mickey calls Ian on a Wednesday, just because. Except, not really. Mickey calls Ian right after Dr Fisher tells him that Mandy's never gonna wake up. Mickey calls Ian because that's all he's been able to do lately. And Ian picks up on the first ring.

“It's Wednesday,” Ian's voice chimes through the line, sounding awfully chipper. And maybe he is. After all, Mickey only ever calls on Fridays. Maybe tonight will be different. Better.

“I know, I just-” Mickey sounds numb, his words almost garbled as he speaks into the phone. “Uh, are you busy tonight?”

He is, booked for the whole night by a long time client who pays him so well. He'd be an idiot not to go. But before he can stop himself, he's saying, “Nope, I'm all yours.”

“Okay, Ian.”

“Okay, Mickey.”

Mickey hangs up, almost throwing his phone right across the room. He's gotta stop this, trying to fuck all his problems away. It's obvious that it's not working because he still hasn't been sleeping at night, and he's still got a drinking problem, and he's still crying so much that his tears have literally dried up. And to top it all off, there's also the fact that he might have serious feelings for Ian. _Tonight will be the last time_ , he tries to tell himself. Too bad it doesn't work.

Ian shows up later that night, all bundled up in layers of jackets because it's been really fucking cold out and Mickey finds it hard to believe that this is the same guy he brought home all those months ago. That guy was drowning in glitter, dressed in nothing but a tank top and gold booty shorts and he was called Curtis. This, though, this is Ian. And this is the one Mickey wants.

Mickey doesn't waste any time at all, immediately grabbing the front of Ian's jacket and pulling him in for a hungry kiss, because that's a thing now. He feels a buzz when he licks into Ian's mouth, tasting a familiar mixture of smoke and mint. Ian leads Mickey backwards, straight into Mickey's bedroom with his eyes still closed as if he's memorised every inch of Mickey's home. (He sort of has.) Mickey's tugging at his jackets, trying to get them off of his body and he pulls away for a moment to yank them off, tossing them aside before he goes back to plant kisses on Mickey's neck, sucking on his pulse point. Mickey hisses when Ian's teeth graze his skin, his hand coming up to twist his fingers into Ian's hair. He's almost positive that Ian's marking him, and he's so tired that he doesn't even care, he just lets Ian have his way. He lets Ian pull both their shirts off, lets Ian trail sloppy kisses down his chest, over his stomach, all the way down his happy trail. He lets Ian mouth at his dick through his shorts, groaning when Ian looks up at him with blown pupils.

“Get the shit,” Mickey tells him, pushing his head away from his crotch before he gets worked up too fast.

Ian grunts, but crawls over him anyway, reaching for the bedside drawer. It's empty though and he turns back to Mickey with a frown. “You're out,” he mutters, shoulders slumping.

“Oh,” is all Mickey says, running a hand over the side of his face, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “Um-”

“I could run to the store and get some, if you want,” Ian offers, a small smile on his face and Mickey should say no, he should tell Ian that the night is over and that he should go home. He doesn't, though. He just nods.

He watches as Ian redresses himself, so quickly that Mickey hadn't even realised that he already left the room. He hears the door open, then shut, and that's when he breaks. Fuck. He's been doing this so much that he's completely out of lube and shit. All the more reason he needs to stop. But he can't. Not now. Not when things are getting better – and _worse_. Mandy's dying, while Mickey's here, having sex for the hundredth time in the past few months, with some hooker that he barely knows. Except he does know Ian. He knows that Ian likes his coffee with lots of cream and sugar, that he sleeps on the left side of the bed, that he still ties his laces with bunny ears, that he always eats a mint after he smokes because he loves smoking, but hates the aftertaste of it. He knows that Ian kinda hates his job and that he hates being called Curtis and that he hates it when old guys stare at him. And Mickey hates that he knows these things. He's not supposed to. Ian's only here to fuck him. That's the deal. But god, how did it turn into something else entirely? Mickey doesn't know what to do. And Mandy's not here to tell him that he's being an idiot and that it'll all be okay. Svet's not here to yell at him in Russian and Yev's not here to give him those judgemental looks of his. Before he knows it, his tears are back, and he guesses they haven't dried out after all, and he curls up in a little ball and lets himself cry his fucking heart out.

“Hey, I've got the-” Ian's voice cuts off as soon as he walks through the door, picking up on soft sobs coming from the bed and he sees Mickey curled up against the pillows, face buried into them. “Mickey?”

Mickey sniffles, his hands coming up to rub at his eyes as soon as he hears Ian and he clears his throat, hoping that Ian hadn't seen him crying, but he knows his red eyes and splotchy skin probably gave him away already.

Ian perches himself on the edge of the bed, far enough from Mickey to stay safe but close enough to remind him that he's there. He reaches out his hand, asking, “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

Mickey flinches when Ian's fingers brush his shoulder, and he doesn't miss the flash of hurt in his eyes when it happens, but he pulls away anyway, shaking his head firmly. “No, it's nothing. I'm fine.”

“You were crying,” Ian counters, his hand awkwardly returning to his lap and there's a deep crease between his eyebrows.

“No, I wasn't,” Mickey tries to growl back, but it comes out weak. Borderline whining, really. Pathetic.

Ian shouldn't but he scoots closer to him, a frown etched onto his lips as he tries to persuade Mickey again. “Come on, Mick, tell me what's wrong.”

“I told you, there's nothing wrong,” Mickey snaps then, eyes narrowing into slits and he clenches his jaw in hopes of making himself look even more threatening than usual, but he doesn't think it works all that well. And fuck, he should be angry, his blood should be boiling, but the heat in his chest is more of a warm fuzz, and he tells himself that Ian isn't the reason for it. Definitely not. (He really is, though.) Mickey pulls himself together and breathes out harshly, his lips curling down into a scowl. The words taste bitter on his tongue but he says them anyway, almost spitting them out at the wide-eyed boy next to him. “Look, I'm just paying you to fuck me, okay? I ain't asking you to be my goddamn therapist.”

Well, that fucking stings. For a second there, Ian almost forgot what he was here for, what he's _always_ here for. He thought that after the other night, things would be different. But obviously not. He ignores the sharp twist in his chest that feels a lot like rejection as he swallows thickly, nodding his head. “I know that,” he answers slowly, carefully choosing his words and he really hopes his eyes aren't going glassy. “It's just- I'm not gonna do this if you're not completely up for it tonight.”

 _Tonight_. Mickey almost laughs. Please. He hasn't been up for it since the first fucking night that he met Ian, but he never let that stop him. He just needed a distraction and Ian gave him exactly that. Now, though, is the time he needs it the most and the guy's trying to play fucking Dr Phil as if he actually cared about Mickey's shit. Mickey knows he doesn't. Sure, the other night was... nice, but people say things they don't mean when they're having sex. He knows that, which is why he doesn't let himself look into it too much because ultimately, this is gonna end and Ian's gonna go back to being Curtis and Mickey's gonna be alone again. He understands. But if there's a part of him that wishes that Ian really does care, no one needs to know.

“Don't think I don't fucking notice how messed up you are,” Ian says right then, after Mickey stays silent and Mickey's eyes almost bulge out of his skull at the sudden change in his tone. “You pick me up for the first time, fucking _wasted_ and yeah, that's normal. I'm used to that. I mean, I don't like it, but a job is a job, right? So, fine, it's whatever. I fuck you, you pay me, then I'm gone. But then you call me, again and again, and every time you do, you get worse.” Ian's looking at him now, green eyes piercing into his skin and it's making him squirm. “You look like you haven't slept in weeks, I can't even tell when you're sober and when you're not, and now you're curled up on your own, crying your eyes out. I just-” He sighs, rubbing at his own strained eyes. “You might not care about yourself, Mickey, but I do. I thought you might've realised that after the other night, but I guess not. Say what you want, call me a hooker, a call boy, a fucking floozy — _I don't care._ I know my limits and there's no way I'm having sex with you tonight.”

Ian's on his feet now, and Mickey's not sure what to do. The only thought that's going through his head is: _holy fuck, Ian cares._ He thought Ian only came to have sex with him, after all, that was his job, wasn't it? He'd fuck Mickey and get paid, then he'd go. Mickey didn't think for a second that he bothered to give Mickey so much as a second glance, let alone notice all the things that were wrong with him. And to top it all off, here he is, actually _admitting_ that he cares about Mickey. How he is and how he's feeling. But by the time Mickey finally processes it, Ian's already halfway through the living room, heading straight for the front door.

“Ian!” Mickey's breath gets caught in his throat when Ian turns around. He gapes for a moment or two, trying to find the words and they're there, on the tip of his tongue, but he only manages to choke out, “Stay?”

Ian frowns at that, wondering whether his dramatic confession earlier – which was by far the most daring thing he's ever done in his life; putting a client in their place, even though he knows it could ruin his entire career, so to speak – had even had an impact on Mickey or not. He thought it had, but here Mickey is, asking him to stay when he clearly said that he's not gonna have sex with him when he's like this.

“Please, stay,” Mickey continues, eyes wide and pleading. “We don't need to have sex, I never even really wanted to, I just- Stay with me, please?”

Ian's taken aback by that, lips parting in a small gasp and he's not sure what to say until Mickey mumbles, “I don't wanna be alone.” And _oh_ , he's a goner.

Before he knows it, he's halfway across the room, pulling Mickey into his arms and Mickey lets him, his own arms winding around Ian's middle and he's so, so warm. He knows this isn't normal, he knows that you're not supposed to feel anything for someone that you literally hire for sex, but right then, standing there in Ian's warmth, Mickey forgets what this really is. Right then, they're just Ian and Mickey, and god, Mickey loves it.

Mickey finally falls asleep that night, arms curled around Ian's tummy, head pressed against his broad chest and legs twisted together. He falls asleep to the sound of Ian's beating heart and the smell of Ian's smoky scent and the feeling of Ian's lips pressed against his temples. He falls asleep knowing that he's there, and he's safe, and he's alive. _He's alive._

•

“Call me if you need anything,” Ian offers kindly the next morning as he stands in the doorway, hands buried in Mickey's back pockets, holding him close. “I'll come right away.”

Mickey nods numbly, still unsure how to feel about all this. Last night had been nice, he'll admit that, but waking up in the morning with Ian by his side, knowing he'd been there the whole night, wondering if he'd heard Mickey crying in his sleep; Mickey doesn't know how he feels about that. He wants to say it was a mistake, that he shouldn't have asked Ian to stay, but the swell in his chest when Ian leans down to press a soft kiss to his lips tells him otherwise.

Ian smiles when Mickey doesn't protest against his kiss, releasing him and muttering, “Bye, Mick,” before he goes. “Bye, Ian,” he hears Mickey say back, and he feels giddy when he looks over his shoulder to see Mickey still watching him, all the way to the lift. It's not much but it's something and Ian can hardly wait for Mickey to call him again.

Except Mickey doesn't. He doesn't call that Friday, or the next, or the one after that. He doesn't call, so neither does Ian.

•

It happens on a Friday, that Friday, because of fucking course, the universe had to go ruin Fridays even more for Mickey.

Mickey is there this time though. At least. He holds Mandy's skinny hand in his, gripping so strongly as though holding on to her tight enough would keep her alive. It doesn't. He chokes out a sob as soon as he hears the beep, seeing the line go flat. He doesn't know what he expected to happen, the doctor had said that the chances of her surviving this was slim to none, but he didn't want to accept that. Mandy was a fighter, always had been. Not this time though. She wasn't strong enough for this, and Mickey couldn't be strong for her either. He's weak. Always so weak. He doesn't remember how long he stays there, her cold hand pressed to his cheek, his tears staining her skin, his voice whispering, “I'm sorry, Mandy, I'm so sorry,” over and over again.

The nurses have to tear him away from her, restrain him from going after her as they took her away. Dr Fisher tells him to go home, and to take care of himself. He wants to tell her that if he couldn't even take care of his own family, how on earth could he take care of himself? He doesn't though. He had caused enough trouble. Instead, he hauls his ass home and drowns himself in whiskey and cries himself to sleep, eyes burning just as much as his throat does. And he doesn't call Ian. He couldn't. He never could. And neither does Ian.

•

The funeral is on a Friday, because Mickey's had enough of the universe fucking things up for him, so much so that he does it to himself. It's raining, so he stands over Mandy's grave with a black umbrella over his head, his body clad in his best black suit, and it's all a little too morbid, really. He can imagine Mandy telling him that he's being ‘really fucking emo’ and he can imagine himself reminding her of her goth phase back in high school. He almost feels her smack him on the back of his head. Almost.

A lot more people show up than he expected, offering their condolences and telling him to be strong. Most of them, Mickey's never even seen before. Maybe they knew Mandy from the neighbourhood, Mandy was more into the community than he was, after all. They probably felt bad for him. He hears the words ‘tragic’ and ‘poor guy’ and he hates it. He doesn't even know how they knew, but word travels fast, he supposes. Only when someone dies, though. No one bothered when she was in the hospital, struggling to stay alive. They only care when she's six-feet-under, when she's not a burden anymore. It's disgusting.

It stops raining and Mickey thinks that it's finally over, that no one's coming anymore until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, man.” It's Lip Gallagher, one of the guys he knew back in school. He hasn't seen him since graduation, but it's nice to see a familiar face. “I'd say it's good to see you, but...” He trails off, rubbing at his bottom lip. “I'm really sorry, about everything.”

“Yeah,” is all Mickey can say, nodding his head. He casts his eyes back towards the ground, staring at the flowers over her grave.

“My brother's here,” Lip says then. “Said he knew Mandy from school.” But Mickey just shrugs. He doesn't know any of the other Gallaghers, there were too many of them and he only ever met Lip.

He hears the guy come up to them, his voice sounding flustered and awfully familiar as he rambles to himself. “Fuck, sorry, I was- _Mickey?_ ”

Mickey's head lifts immediately and oh no. “Ian?” His eyes flicker between the two guys and his stomach lurches. “Ian... Gallagher? You're a Gallagher?”

Of fucking course, the guy he'd been sleeping with for the past couple of months happens to be some kid from the Southside, from his own fucking neighbourhood. No matter how hard he tries, he can never get away from the Southside. Not really.

“And you're Mickey Milkovich,” Ian says, that familiar wrinkle between his eyebrows ever present, the pieces finally clicking and he curses himself for not noticing it before. Mickey's quite literally a male version of Mandy. No wonder he never mentioned a last name, or where he's from.

“Wait, do you two know each other?” Lip asks, glancing between the two of them.

They ignore him, Mickey focusing solely on Ian and he asks, “What are you doing here?”

“Mandy and I were friends in school,” Ian explains, a frown tugging at his lips. “I came as soon as I heard.”

“As soon as you heard she was _dead_ ,” Mickey replies bitterly, blue eyes flashing a shade darker. Mickey scoffs, shaking his head and this is exactly what he means. “Where were you when the accident happened? When she fell into a coma? When she was fighting for her fucking life?”

“Shit, Mickey, I didn't know!” Ian cries, because really, he didn't. The last time he heard anything about Mandy was years ago, when she moved a little out of town with her brother. With _Mickey_. He still can't believe he didn't see it earlier. But, honestly, there hasn't been word of Mandy, not until now. “No one knew! You didn't tell anyone.”

“Because no one would care!” Mickey yells back, the words burning in his mouth.

“I would've,” Ian counters, raising his voice.

“Bullshit.”

“Don't ‘bullshit’ me, Mick,” Ian hisses, and he takes a step forward, jabbing an accusatory finger at Mickey's chest. “You wanna know where I was? All those times?”

Don't say it, don't say it, don't-

“I was with _you_.”

Fuck.

Ian scoffs, a sour look on his face as his lips curl downwards. “Or did you forget that?”

Mickey feels a pang in his chest, because god, how could he forget? Every time something went wrong, Ian would be there to take his mind off of it, to make him feel something other than pain. But that's not his fault. It's not.

“Don't turn this on me,” Mickey mutters quietly, feeling a sob coming up his throat and he blinks to keep the tears out of his eyes. “It's not my fault, okay? I _needed_ that- I needed to just- God, look, I've had to bury _so_ many bodies.” He sniffles, looking at the other gravestones. “My dad, but I don't really care about that because the fucker had it coming. My wife, and maybe I didn't love her like that but she was still family, you know? My son, man, I don't even know if I was really the father but either way, he was mine. And now my sister, the only person I had left. I don't have anyone anymore.”

There's an ache in Ian's chest, his heart literally breaking for Mickey and everything he's been through. God, he wishes he knew. He could've helped, he could've done something. But it's too late. They're gone. But he's here now. That's gotta count for something, right?

“You have _me_ ,” Ian says, trying to smile at Mickey but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. “You'll always have me.”

Mickey's eyebrows furrow at that, his jaw tightening and his voice is cold when he asks, “Do I, though?” Before Ian can ask what he means, he adds, “Because I haven't heard from you in weeks. So, really, Ian, do I?”

Ian gawks at him, the words getting caught in his throat and hell, he's not even sure what he wanted to say. Everything he thinks of just seems like a half-assed excuse and eventually, he settles for, “I told you to call me if you needed me. And you didn't, so-”

“Oh, and what was I supposed to say?” Mickey sneers, and Ian doesn't like that tone, or that scowl. “ _‘Hey man, my sister just died, wanna bang?’_ ”

“Is that all I'm good for then?” Ian presses his lips into a thin line, eyes starting to water as he's reminded who he really is to Mickey. “I'm just a good fuck to distract you from all the shit that's happening in your life?”

“Yes!” Mickey squeezes his eyes shut, regretting it as soon as the word leaves his mouth. “I mean, _no_. Yeah, that was how it started, I needed to forget and there you were, but then it was different. It was more than that. I cared about you. I still-” Mickey opens his eyes to see Ian staring him right in the face. “I _still_ care about you. And I thought you cared about me too.”

“I do.” Ian's voice is quiet now, all the anger from earlier completely gone and all he wants is to hold Mickey, and tell him that he does care, he cares so much. “It's just- You didn't call, so I thought that maybe you didn't wanna see me again after the other night.”

“But I-”

“If I showed up at your place asking questions, would you have let me in?”

Mickey doesn't answer that, because he knows he wouldn't have. He probably would've told Ian to mind his fucking business then slam the door in his face. Fuck. He hates it when Ian's right and Ian's always right.

“Exactly.” Ian sighs, running his hands over his rugged face before they come to rest on the sides of Mickey's face, letting Mickey press his cheek into his palm. “Look, Mickey, I want this. I want _you_. I want to be there for you, but I can't do that if you keep shutting me out.”

“I know.” Mickey tries to drop his gaze but Ian's grip on him is firm, keeping their eyes locked together and all Mickey sees is pure, genuine love in those green eyes and he wants this too. He knows he does. And he knows what he has to do. “I'll be better.”

“Both of us will,” Ian tells him, his thumb tracing Mickey's cheekbone and he kisses Mickey, full on the lips, soft and slow and Mickey lets him, moving his lips against Ian's. Ian pulls away, keeping their foreheads pressed together and his eyes are still closed when he whispers, “We'll figure it out, okay?”

Mickey nods against his forehead, mumbling a soft, “Okay.” And he's just so tired. He's tired of fighting and he's tired of being hurt and he's so tired of feeling sorry for himself. He doesn't have to anymore though. Not when Ian's here. He pulls Ian's hands away from his face, tugging them around his neck instead as he steps into his arms and buries his face into the crook of Ian's neck, hugging Ian like his life depended on it and maybe it did. The only time he ever feels alive is when he's with Ian and god, he really needs to feel alive. And he does. He feels alive and safe and finally at peace. He feels like he's home again.

•

“Hey, Mandy. It's good to see you. I mean, not _see_ you, but- Oh, you know what I mean. I can't believe it's been three months since you left, feels like it was just yesterday that it happened. Ian and I are together now, if you were wondering. Like a proper couple. It's funny cause he told me that you actually had a crush on him back in high school. How typical of us to fall for the same guy. I see why, though. He's, uh, pretty amazing. And I don't throw that word around for anyone. I mean, it was hard at first because he was always going on about opening up to each other and you know I'm not used to that. Hell, even _you_ had to literally force the words out of me sometimes. But we made it work. We're not a hundred percent yet, but we're getting there. He quit his job and now he's a barista at a coffee shop in town. He has to wear this little green apron and it's fucking adorable. Oh, and I've been volunteering at this group that helps people who've been in accidents or who've lost loved ones to accidents. It makes me feel a little better, you know? It was Ian's idea. He's got great ideas. Huh. I think I'm in love with him, Mands. Is that crazy? You'd probably say it isn't. You've always been a sucker for romance. I'm really sorry you didn't get to find your epic love but I promise you, if this is mine, I'm not letting him go. I know you'd hate that. And I know that if I fuck this up, you'll find some way to come haunt the shit out of me. I wouldn't mind though. I just- Wherever you are, I hope you're okay. And I miss you. So, so much.”

“Mick, you ready to go?”

Mickey looks up to see Ian standing over him, hands buried in the pockets of his suit, sunlight glowing around him and god, he looks good. Mickey nods his head and lets Ian pull him up, dusting his pants off. He gives one last glance at line of graves, whispering, “Bye, Mandy. Bye, Svet. Bye, Yev.” He gulps, a watery smile on his face as he looks at the one on the far end and he sighs. “Bye to you too, Dad.”

Mickey laces his fingers with Ian's, following him back to the car. Ian keeps ahold of Mickey's hand in his lap while he drives with the other hand, occasionally bringing it up to press a soft kiss to his cold skin. They're on their way to Fiona's wedding, and while Ian's pecking at the back of Mickey's hand, he wonders when he'll be able to put a ring on Mickey's finger. He knows it's only been a few months, but it feels like it's been a lifetime and well, when you know, you know. And maybe Mickey won't admit it just yet, but he knows it too. _This_ is his epic love. And he's never letting go.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Let me know what you think or just say hi, I love hearing from you guys! Also, if you enjoyed this, please share it around for me! You can reach me here on [twitter](https://twitter.com/giamoroustyies) or [tumblr](http://gasolineharry.tumblr.com/ask) :)


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